


The Assumption of Heartbreak (Sometimes Works Out Fine)

by dannyPURO



Series: The Assumption of Heartbreak [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: Grantaire can’t remember a day when he wasn’t hopelessly, entirely, stupidly in love with Enjolras.Or, well, that’s not entirely accurate. He wasn’t in love with Enjolras three years ago, because he hadn’t yet stumbled into the Musain, drunk off his ass, only to be confronted by the visage of an angel and the spit and fire of… something. Past that, though, it’s been… yeah. Every day.It’s fine, though, he figures. He can adapt. Acclimatize. He can deal with it. (He can get so relentlessly drunk every meeting so that when he does something stupid, like wax poetic about Enjolras’s jawline, it can be chalked up to him being a ridiculous, good-for-nothing drunkard, rather than a ridiculous, ugly, hopelessly in love, disgusting, good-for-nothing person. Thank god for small virtues.)And so, okay, sure, maybe there are a few flaws inherent in his plan. Namely the fact that Enjolras hates him.





	The Assumption of Heartbreak (Sometimes Works Out Fine)

Grantaire can’t remember a day when he wasn’t hopelessly, entirely, stupidly in love with Enjolras.

Or, well, that’s not entirely accurate. He wasn’t in love with Enjolras three years ago, because he hadn’t yet stumbled into the Musain, drunk off his ass, only to be confronted by the visage of an angel and the spit and fire of… something. Past that, though, it’s been… yeah. Every day.

It’s fine, though, he figures. He can adapt. Acclimatize. He can deal with it. (He can get so relentlessly drunk every meeting so that when he does something stupid, like wax poetic about Enjolras’s jawline, it can be chalked up to him being a ridiculous, good-for-nothing drunkard, rather than a ridiculous, ugly, hopelessly in love, disgusting, good-for-nothing person. Thank god for small virtues.)

And so, okay, sure, maybe there are a few flaws inherent in his plan. Namely the fact that Enjolras hates him.

It’s not exactly unfounded. Grantaire does, after all, show up to every meeting under the ruse of just… wanting to debate everything Enjolras stands for, and he does do so while being blatantly, disrespectfully intoxicated, and he is also a fundamentally annoying person. He’s not lacking for evidence, either. Enjolras tends to make his stance fairly clear whenever he calls Grantaire a useless, spineless, confrontational drunk who keeps himself in a state of inebriation so he doesn’t have to deal with the fact that he isn’t doing anything of value with his life. Which is an opinion that he’s entitled to.

Which is fine. Grantaire is adaptable. He is tough. He is resilient.

He is lying across Jehan’s bed, head on their lap. “Enjolras hates me.”

“Grantaire,” Jehan says sadly, taking a drag of their cigarette and running their fingers through Grantaire’s curls. “Enjolras- he-” They frown. “He went overboard. I’m sure he knows that much by now. He doesn’t hate you.”

“He hates me.” He scowls and rolls over so his words are muffled against Jehan’s bathrobe.

They sigh. “You’re both ridiculous. He’ll come around by the next meeting and you’ll be back to your usual nonsense. He doesn’t actually think that about you, R.”

Grantaire just shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Because he doesn’t know how he can face Enjolras at the next meeting, is the thing. Which is ridiculous, he knows, he’s gone years, now, with this same shit, but he can’t… he can’t show up, knowing what his Apollo really thinks of him. The ambiguity is gone. He can’t pretend that someday, he might have a chance. Not of actually being with Enjolras, or of… getting to kiss him, or maybe wake up next to him in the morning, but of getting to look on fully. Of being a friend, almost.

Whatever.

Jehan seems to sense whatever hole his drunken mind seems to have shambled into. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” They stub their cigarette out on the bedframe and toss it towards the nightstand before pulling Grantaire to a position that could almost be called sitting. “Tell me you aren’t going to do anything rash. Please. For the sake of my sanity.”

And really, pot to kettle, considering all the shit they pull, but that’s not the point. “Jehan, I can’t,” he admits, and it’s a whisper, really. “He doesn’t want me there, anyways, he said so himself.”

“Grantaire…” They’ve got that sad voice again, the one that’s just really pitying, not the one they read dramatic poems in, and that’s too much for him to deal with right now.

He stands up. “I’m just gonna go. Thanks anyways, Jehan.”

He goes back to his apartment. It’s a shithole, really, and on days when he’s feeling especially self-deprecating, he calls it such. His shithole. He’s not feeling especially self-deprecating today, though. Mostly just sad and hopeless and pining and drunk. Besides, self-deprecating carries the implication that the judgement isn’t deserved, and, as he’s established many times, he deserved every single jab Enjolras threw his way. Enjolras is good like that.

Actually, he’s good in many ways, as Grantaire is reminded as he flicks on the light to show the various sketches of his leader he’s got strewn across the room and the painting, still in the works-- the one of that time Enjolras fell asleep on the table at the Musain after the meeting-- up on the easel. He’s… well, he’s gorgeous, really. He’s got features blessed by the gods, from his cheekbones to his hands to his _hips_ , which Grantaire glimpsed while Enjolras was pulling off his sweater one time and have seemingly been burned into his retinas ever since. The hands are not to be skimmed over either, of course, because to skim over his hands is to skim over the majority of Grantaire’s spank bank, and that’s hardly fair. It’s a good spank bank. Very detailed.

That does nothing to change the fact that Enjolras hates him.

There’s very little he can do about that, actually, except to drink himself into a thick haze and to stay inside his apartment in his pajamas and to ignore any and all attempts his friends make to contact him. It’s good. He’s got a lot of cereal and even more booze, and, at least for the time being, he’s got no reason to venture either out into the outside world or into sobriety.

He makes it about two weeks, maybe a day or so longer, exempting the bleary run to the grocery store he had to make to pick up ramen and beer and breakfast cereal and milk, about halfway in. He’s out of clean underwear, but that just means he’s wearing dirty underwear. He’s not about to do his laundry. His phone’s missing, too. He’s not too concerned, seeing as it’s got to be in his apartment somewhere, and he doesn’t want to talk to anybody anyways, but he does find it just a bit odd. Whatever.

He’s just about asleep on his couch, somewhere near the two-and-a-half week mark, when he is rudely awoken by a pounding at his door. He groans. Éponine, probably, coming to check on him. Lovely, but unwanted. He shuts his eyes.

The knock sounds again.

“Go away, Ép.” Oh, he does sound bad. On the other hand, he’s not sure what he was expecting.

“Grantaire, we need to talk.” And oh, that’s not Éponine. That’s Enjolras, whose voice he would know anywhere and half asleep. Speaking of, he must be asleep, and dreaming. It’s not like he hasn’t been shifting in and out of consciousness for the past few weeks. That’s what’s happening.

Grantaire presses his face against the back of the couch. He ought to just switch dreams. He can’t think about Enjolras at the moment.

It doesn’t work. “Grantaire, I’m serious. Let me in. I need to talk to you.” He pounds on the door again. “I’ve got your key, you know. I got it from Jehan. I wanted to give you your privacy, but I’m not above letting myself in.”

Grantaire considers, for a moment, being a normal, responsable, mature adult, and letting Enjolras, his respected comrade, into his apartment, rather than forcing him to use Jehan’s key, which he knows has Lucille Ball printed on it. The pull of his couch is too strong. He shuts his eyes again.

The door shoves open, and he hears Enjolras struggle to get the key out of the lock, shut the door, and then stop in his tracks. “Oh, Grantaire.”

He’s heard a lot of that lately. To be fair, he’s sure he does not make a pretty sight-- not that he ever does. He can’t remember the last time he showered. He’s not quite sure what shirt he’s got on. There’s ramen cups and beer bottles strewn about him like driftwood on a beach after a storm. He is not, as some would say, “doing well.”

He cracks open an eye. “Apollo. Kind of you to visit my shithole.”

Enjolras huffs and looks about himself as though looking for something with which to stop himself from objecting about something or other. “Your friends have been worried, Grantaire,” is what he seems to settle on. “They haven’t heard from you in weeks. Joly is convinced you’ve drank yourself to death.”

“And so you’ve come here to check and see. Very kind. I have not.”

“I have come,” he says, and there’s that affronted, enraged tone that Grantaire knows so well. “to-” he breaks off, then, though, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Grantaire laughs. “Have you come to scold me? For worrying your friends, for being a hassle? I have already scolded myself. You can go home.”

Enjolras sighs. “I have come to… to ask you why you have stopped attending my meetings,” he says, and he says it all in a rush, as though he is ashamed to be asking. Embarrassed, which is entirely uncharacteristic. It’s all confusing, though, because it doesn't make any sense that he should be asking Grantaire back when he was the one who had essentially banished him in the first place. It should be no mystery to him at all. He sits up, leaning against the side of the sofa.

He wants to make some kind of snappy retort, one that would make Enjolras shut up and go home, but he’s always been a bit of an honest one, if a bit crass in it, so what comes out of his mouth ends up just being, “You don’t want me there.”

“I- what?” For someone with such an exquisitely powerful way with words, Enjolras is shockingly bad at expressing himself. Sometimes. Clearly, he can do so perfectly well under other situations.

“You’ve made your stance pretty clear,” he says, willing his voice not to crack. It almost works. “And I- I respect that. Thought I’d stay out of your way.”

To his eternal surprise, Enjolras steps forward, shuts the door behind him, and sits down beside Grantaire on the couch. “I didn’t want you to stop coming to the meetings.”

Grantaire has no idea how to reply to that, so he just shuts up. For once.

Enjolras continues. “I didn’t mean to say all that. It was… it was cruel. You deserve to be treated with respect, and my personal feelings are no good reason for me to be so malicious. I wanted to apologise.”

That… that still hurts. The problem isn’t that Enjolras yelled at him in the meeting, obviously, the problem is that Enjolras hates him. The yelling was a consequence. So him confirming the fact, albeit tactfully, really doesn’t help at all. “Yeah, okay.” He must really be drunk-- not that he didn’t already know that, but still-- because for some reason, he kind of feels like he’s going to cry. Lump in his throat, burning eyes, all that jazz.

Enjolras huffs. “Can’t we ever just have a civil discussion? I know you’re absolutely wasted, and I know I was… really, really awful at that last meeting, but can’t we just talk? You can yell at me, if you want, I just want to talk to you.”

That’s a little too much for Grantaire. He’s not exactly sure what it is, exactly, that pushes him over the edge, but he’s still so drunk and miserable and he will never, ever get to wake up next to Enjolras, because he hates him, and that’s the worst bit, and now Enjolras is trying to talk to him about how much he hates him and it just pushes him over the edge. If he were a little more sober, he’d probably be ashamed. In any case, he will be in the morning. “I-” his voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”

“Grantaire-”

And that’s enough, he’s crying, big heaving sobs wracking his chest like waves to a boat in a storm. “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras panics, he can see that much. Grantaire hardly blames him; he came to his apartment hoping to have a quick, to-the-point discussion about Grantaire’s various failings and how Enjolras’s resentment for him does not nullify his general overarching respect for all individuals, and instead, he is faced with Grantaire ugly-crying on the sofa for no discernable reason. He freezes, for a few moments, then lays a cautious hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

Christ, his hand is gentle and warm and soft as anything.

Grantaire expects, of course, for Enjolras to, in a few moments, remove his hand from where he has so blessed Grantaire’s shoulder with its presence, give a hasty and awkward goodbye, and be out the door in a grand total of about twenty seconds, if that.

He is not expecting Enjolras to sit down, so close, on the couch beside him, leaving his hand right there on Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’m kind of realizing that I really fucked up, Grantaire,” he says, voice soft, and when Grantaire looks up, he’s gazing at him with a sort of sadness in his eyes that, strangely, doesn’t seem like pity much at all.

God, Grantaire is so drunk. This was such a bad idea.

They sit there, together, for a while. Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s ten minutes or twenty or an hour, but Enjolras hardly moves and neither of them say anything. The only sound is Grantaire’s miserable sobbing, which he seems powerless to put a stop to. Eventually, even that slows to a stop, and Enjolras hands him a tissue. He must have one of those little travel tissue packs in his bag, like a dork. Grantaire still doesn’t understand what the hell is going on.

“I don’t know why you hang around, sometimes,” Enjolras says, breaking the silence, but continuing on before he can fully break Grantaire’s heart. “I’m so cruel to you. I don’t mean to be, you have to understand. I don’t know what it is. Or, well-” he breaks off, starts again on a new train of thought. “I admire you so much, you know? I… I _missed_ you, these past meetings. I don’t know what to do when you aren’t at them.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure he’s passed into some alternate reality, because the words coming out of Enjolras’s mouth simply do not make any sense. He stares.

Enjolras continues on. “You frustrate me, you know?” It’s almost like he’s forgotten he’s talking to Grantaire himself. Namely because of the content, of course, but also because he’s got an odd look to him, like he’s reciting something, something that’s been bouncing around in his head for a while. He’s looking down at his knees, which doesn’t make any sense either, because he is the last person Grantaire would expect to be unsure of his words. “You’re so- you’re so fucking smart. You’re smarter than me, that’s clear. And you’re so fucking talented, at so many things. And you don’t _do_ anything with it, when I know that if you just fucking tried, you could do so many great things, but you just don’t. And you care about Éponine and Jehan and Gavroche and Bahorel and Feuilly so _much_ , and sometimes I-” he shakes his head, sighs, goes on in a soft voice. “I wish you cared about me like that.”

If Grantaire was confused before, he’s fucking dumbstruck now. Doesn’t Enjolras know he cares about him deeper than anything? Doesn’t he know he would lay down his own life for anything Enjolras wanted?

Enjolras composes himself again, sits up a little straighter and takes his hand off of Grantaire’s shoulder. “I know it’s not any excuse. You just… you drive me a little crazy, and I’m not very good at dealing with it. I might be a little in love with you.”

Grantaire figures he needs to say something, now. He doesn’t know what’s going on, and it’s entirely probable that either him or Enjolras has gone completely crazy, but he cannot, he absolutely cannot, let Enjolras leave right now, which is exactly what is going to happen if he doesn’t muster himself and man up and just say something. “Enjolras,” he says, desperate and rough, and that’s all he can get out. He swallows. “Enjolras.” He’s fairly certain he’s got the dumbest look of wonder on his face anybody has ever seen. That’s okay, though, because his fucking Apollo, his leader in red, his fucking years-in-waiting unrequited love just said that he might be in love with him.

(Might is the operative word, Grantaire’s fucking awful subconscious tells him. He’ll realize he’s wrong in a little bit. But on the other hand, Grantaire is a fucking mess right now, and he has been for two weeks, and he’s just been sobbing and drunk right beside Enjolras, and if that wasn’t enough to convince him otherwise, he doesn’t know what will be.)

Enjolras is watching him with an impossibly soft look in his eyes. “You’re really drunk,” he says, “and you need a shower. Go shower, Grantaire.” He stands up, then pulls Grantaire to his feet, but when he moves to let go of his hands, Grantaire holds on tight and looks up at him, feeling desperate.

He can’t quite shake the feeling that when he gets out of the shower, Enjolras will have left. That would fucking sting. “Stay, please stay. I’ll be quick, don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

His eyes widen, but he nods. “I’ll stay.” He sits back down on the couch. “I’ll stay right here.”

Grantaire showers faster than he ever has in his life. Or, well, that’s probably not true, because his coordination is really not great right now, but he’s trying. He’s trying to shower very, very fast, because even though he knows Enjolras said he would stay, and he trusts Enjolras, he really does, he still can’t believe that he won’t be gone. So he showers as fast as he can, while still trying to take a reasonable amount of are to look like a normal, sanitary human being by the end-- because Enjolras is in his apartment, what the fuck, and he just said he might be a little bit in love with Grantaire, and Grantaire would really like to not convince him otherwise within the first hour of confession. He’d like a little time to pretend.

He comes out of the shower, towel around his waist, and stops in the doorway of the living room. Because Enjolras is still there, sitting awkwardly on the couch right where he said he’d be, drumming his fingers on his knee and looking nervous.

He turns around at the sound of a board creaking under Grantaire’s foot, and he smiles, wide and radiant and amazing. “You didn’t drown.”

“No.” He doesn’t stagger, exactly, but he veers off to the side in a way that reminds him just how much he’s had to drink.

Enjolras is on his feet in an instant. “You should get some rest. Sleep it off.” He’s got his hands on Grantaire’s arms, warm and solid, and that feels so nice he can’t object.

Only…

Only he doesn’t really want to be alone right now. He doesn’t want Enjolras to go home and never come back. If this is a dream, which it may well be, he doesn’t want it to be over so fast. He shakes his head.  
Enjolras frowns. “Grantaire-”

“Stay with me?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

He starts. “You mean-”

“Just stay the night. Please. Enjolras, please, I don’t want you to go.”

He nods, eyes wide, mouth just barely agape. “Okay.”

Grantaire leads Enjolras to his bedroom and pulls on a pair of pajama pants while Enjolras politely averts his eyes. Not that he’d mind if he looked, of course. Although… on the other hand, it’s not like Grantaire’s physical form would really help him on his quest to make Enjolras not realize that he can’t be in love. Enjolras is… he’s fucking beautiful, that’s the only way to explain it. Grantaire is not. Maybe he’d best keep his clothes on for now. He pulls on a t-shirt on his way to the bed.

Enjolras slides in beside him, moving cautiously and slow. Grantaire’s bed is small; there’s hardly room for the two of them, bird-like as Enjolras may be. And so they’re pressed against one another, shoulder-to-shoulder, angled just a little to fit better, once Grantaire turns off the lamp.

“Goodnight, R,” Enjolras says, voice soft, after a while.

“Goodnight.” He doesn’t expect to be able to fall asleep, not with his constant awareness of Enjolras right beside him. He does, though, remarkably quickly, and the last thing he remembers feeling is the gentle flutter of Enjolras’s breathing against his own hair.

* * *

Grantaire awakes confused, hungover, and pressed against Enjolras’s front with no space at all between them. He’s pretty sure he’s had a dream about this a couple times. He’s also pretty sure that dream also comes in nightmare form. Regardless, he’s got his legs tangled with Enjolras’s, a frankly embarrassing hard-on, and his face on the pillow about two inches from Enjolras’s magnificent profile.

He could lean in for a kiss and hardly anything would have to change.

He could lean in for a kiss and Enjolras might kiss back, he realizes, their conversation from the night before coming, very suddenly, to mind. And he can’t very well pass up on that opportunity; he doesn’t know how long he’ll have before Enjolras changes his mind, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to be this close to him again.

He rests an hand on Enjolras’s bare shoulder, shakes gently.

His eyes flutter open, and he looks confused, for a moment, bleary and unsure of where he is. “Grantaire,” he says, voice soft, almost venerating, and that’s enough.

Grantaire kisses him. He does so impossibly softly, barely anything, really, but he can still feel Enjolras’s lips beneath his and when he opens his eyes, Enjolras’s have already closed again. He pulls back.

Enjolras is staring at him, eyes gorgeous and wide open, now, and he clears his throat. “You mean it?”

Grantaire nods. Of course he means it. He’s always meant it.

Enjolras near attacks him. He’s pressing forwards with a kind of desperation that Grantaire had only seen in him at protests and in coffee shops. And god, it’s so good; Grantaire doesn’t know how he will ever be able to go through his life from now on if he can’t get this again, he’s spoiled now, he’ll never be able to kiss anyone else because nothing can top Enjolras kissing him like he’s the fucking air he needs to breathe.

Grantaire can’t believe this is real life. Maybe his two week bender finally killed him and this is heaven. Maybe-

Enjolras has got his hands up Grantaire’s shirt and his thigh pressing against Grantaire’s fucking dick and Grantaire can’t breathe.

He breaks away. “Enjolras, what-” he wants to kick himself for stopping him, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t know what’s happening. He understands, kind of, Enjolras wanting to hang out with him and kiss him. (He doesn’t understand, actually, but that’s what’s been happening and apparently, he does want to, and who is Grantaire to question him?) He does not understand Enjolras, golden Greek god, chiseled and exquisite leader of a revolution, wanting to have sex with him, Grantaire, who is, on a very good day, average.

Enjolras looks at him, shakes his head as if to clear it, and sighs. “Sorry, I just,” his hand is still resting on Grantaire’s ribs, warm and so solid, and it’s very distracting. “I just, you-” he frowns. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh.” That explains it. “Okay.” Grantaire shifts to get out of bed, but Enjolras stops him with a firm hand on his arm.

“No,” he says, just a little too loud. “No, I mean… I don’t know what I’m doing. I haven’t… done this before.”

And that isn’t what Grantaire thought Enjolras’s objection would be, so he settles back down on the bed. “Never, Apollo?” he asks, and he’s joking, but it’s a genuine question. It’s hard to believe Enjolras, with all his obvious options, hadn’t once taken somebody home. On the other hand, it’s not like Grantaire had ever seen him with a boyfriend, either.

Anyways.

Enjolras is looking nervous, looking uncomfortable, and that isn’t right. “Um… no. Never.”

Grantaire leans in, presses a gentle kiss to Enjolras’s jawline. “Want me to show you?”

“God, please.”

And he can do that. For all his flaws, Grantaire is redeemed, in his opinion, by his skill in bed. He can absolutely, without a doubt, without question, deflower Enjolras. He kisses down his neck, across his collarbone-- leaving a frankly selfish hickey there, but he can’t help it, he can’t be blamed, not when he has Enjolras beneath him like this-- down his stomach-- and god, his fucking abs-- and stops at his hip.

Enjolras squirms. “R-” his hand finds its way into Grantaire’s curls, and oh, that’s nice. “R, please. Please.”

Who is Grantaire to do otherwise?

He pulls down Enjolras’s pajama pants-- which are actually his, which is pretty hot-- and lets him kick them off awkwardly as he nuzzles at his blessedly hard cock. Grantaire isn’t weird, he isn’t Jehan, he’s not about to wax poetic about a dick, but… but Enjolras has a great cock. Not the biggest he’s ever seen, sure, that prize goes to Bahorel, which he knows about from a really weird night about a year and a half ago, but it’s just… nice. Grantaire likes it.

He figures he should probably get onto sucking his dick, now. He strokes it a few times, relishing in the feel of it, and then licks up the shaft.

Enjolras starts, tightens his grasp in Grantaire’s hair.

Grantaire hums and keeps going.

Of all the ways Grantaire has imagined Enjolras-- which, admittedly, is quite a lot-- he has never successfully pictured the reality of it. Maybe he expected him to be loud, which would make a little sense, given how inclined he is to talking, but that certainly isn’t the case. He’s near silent, letting out tiny whispered moans that make Grantaire’s dick throb, squirming beneath him like he’s desperate for something he can’t quite articulate.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, softly, pulling off for a moment.

He moans, tugs at Grantaire’s hair again. “No, keep- please, R, please, just-”

If Grantaire didn’t have another agenda, he’d be sucking his dick again instantly. “Talk for me. I wanna hear you.” He wants to hear him come apart, more like. Wants to hear Enjolras reduced to moans and whimpers and begging. He lowers his head again, sucks the head of Enjolras’s cock.

He groans and arches his back like a fucking vision. He’s gorgeous, he’s wonderful, he’s everything and anything Grantaire has ever wanted. “I can’t-” he breaks off, looking desperate and frustrated and utterly debauched. “I can’t fucking _think_ ,” he says, and then he giggles, of all things, and it’s all so lovely and adorable that Grantaire has to take pity on him.

Let it never be said that Grantaire is not a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom. He sucks Enjolras’s dick fast and sloppy and god, he’s so into this, he’s so into _Enjolras_ , he never wants to do anything else ever again, he just wants to stay here between Enjolras’s perfect, beautiful thighs forever, it’s his new home, he-

He’s distracted from this train of thought by Enjolras tugging hard on his hair and saying, voice rough and breaking, “Grantaire, I-” And then he’s coming.

It catches Grantaire by surprise, honestly, though it shouldn’t have, and he has to pull off, sputtering. The rest of the cum catches him in the face, right across his cheek, his chin. There’s a little bit of it on the bridge of his nose.

It’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to him, ever.

Enjolras lies there, staring at him with wonder in his eyes, inactive and limp and gorgeous, and Grantaire has to reach down and palm himself desperately.

He looks dumb, he’s sure of it; cum streaked across his face, still in his pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, and rubbing one out, right over his pants, like he hasn’t gotten himself off in five years. “God,” he chokes out. “Enj-”

The stirs Enjolras to action, and he bolts forward, knocking Grantaire’s hand out of the way and shoving his own, rather unceremoniously, into his pants. He pauses, to Grantaire’s despair, and withdraws it a second later to pull at his shirt.

“What-”

“Please, Grantaire,” he says, landing kisses anywhere he can reach, it seems-- his neck, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his hair. “Just let me-”

Grantaire aquiests, raising his arms so Enjolras can strip him and throw the shirt to the floor. If he weren’t so far gone, he knows he’d be uncomfortable. He can’t even think about anything but Enjolras.

Enjolras kisses across his chest without rhyme or reason, letting one hand wander-- in his hair one minute, then at his waist, then groping his ass, while the other jerks him off at a furious pace. “God, you’re so hot,” he says, voice muffled against Grantaire’s chest. “You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever goddamn seen, christ, the things I want to do to you, I- I… I want everything from you, Grantaire, I want you, I- god, I fucking love you, you-”

Grantaire’s coming, that’s too much, that’s so real and raw and he can’t do anything else. He collapses forward against Enjolras, who catches his weight and shifts so they’re lying on the bed again.

“God,” Enjolras says, voice soft and wonderous. He brushes his thumb across Grantaire’s cheekbone, smiling dopily. “Wow.”

Wow is right. He’s got cum drying across his face and a mess in his pajama pants and he’s got Enjolras in his fucking bed, and… wow. “I-” he looks Enjolras in the eye. “I love you,” he says, and he didn’t mean to, he meant to say something dumb, like _thank you_ or _that was nice_ , but it just comes out and it feels so natural and Enjolras is beaming.

“Yeah?” he asks, which is ridiculous, because how could he not have known?

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” He wraps an arm around Grantaire, tugs him half on top of him, hold him tight. They lay there, in silence, for a while, before he speaks up again. “This means you’re gonna start coming to the meetings again, right? I wasn’t lying when I said I kind of need you there.”

Grantaire has to laugh. “Yeah, Enj. I’ll go to your meetings.”

“Okay,” he says, and it’s clear that he’s kind of falling asleep again. “That’s good. Cause I’m kind of really in love with you.”

Grantaire just smiles into Enjolras’s shoulder and lets himself drift off again, content and happy and so, so in love.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably make a sequel from Enjolras's perspective. Stay tuned.  
> EDIT: There's now a sequel. Read it.


End file.
